graceboundsoul-blog

[graceboundsoul-blog]

Get to know me thingy

I was tagged by the wonderful @angeltrapsanddemonsigils ! Go check her out!

Name: Holly Birthday: December 10th Gender: Female (she/her) Relationship status: single Zodiac sign: Sagittarius Siblings: four older sisters Fave colour: purple Pets: uhhhh I live on a farm sooooo... two dogs, three house cats, 12 barn cats, three horses, a mule, 20 chickens, 12 goats... 6 fish... i think that’s it... Wake up and bed times: 6am and whenever I get tired enough to sleep Type of phone: Galaxy s5 Love or lust: Love Lemonade or iced tea: 1/2 and 1/2, half and half, Arnold Palmer me baby! lol Cats or dogs: both!! Coke or Pepsi: PEPSIIIIIIIIII Text or call: Texting Makeup or natural: Natural. natural 95% of the time Met a celebrity?: yep, lots of Red Wings back in high school, Mario Lopez when I was like five years old, Ted Nuggent when I was young Smile or eyes: Both Light or dark: Doesn’t matter to me Shorter or taller: Either? Intelligence or attraction: Intelligence City or country: Country. the city gives me hives i swear....plus city legislation doesn’t allow me to have my mule so screw that. Last song you listened to: Iso Sika (The Killing of the Big Pig) by Da Yoopers

I tag anyone who also wants to do this!

[graceboundsoul-blog]

ok but what if Dean took Death’s place after 10.23?

Death is a force older than God, an ancient primordial entity of immense power, one of the original Four with the power to bring the ending of the world.

So when Dean Winchester cuts Death down with his own scythe - irony: a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects - there cannot just be a blank spot and a pile of ash where he once stood. Someone has to fill the void. Not just anyone can carry that scythe and besides, Dean’s got some experience.

The new visage of Death appears to the weak and dying and they are afraid: here is a hulking man with scars all over and a dark, brooding brow, a firm pout and wide shoulders hauling a gleaming weapon he took from its maker. Stone crumbles in his wake. Clocks slow. Flowers wither. People spit his name in the wind but he’s the only one ever left standing, the lone figure triumphant. They say he once was mortal too, but there’s no way that this broad, solid, demon of a man with a cut jaw and tight fists could be anything but unshakeable. He’s a usurper, a killer, and he’s terrifying to behold. 

But he comes in jeans with holes in the knees, as if he’s been stripped bare. His eyes are green and bright with life (he doesn’t age, not since he’s touched the scythe, eternally cursed to walk the earth and fulfill its purpose) and his hands are gentle when they reach out. He somehow always knows just what to say in those last moments: It wasn’t your fault or I’m so sorry kiddo or Of course they’ll miss you or You did the best you could. Tears won’t phase him but he always allows five extra minutes to say goodbye to a loved one. He doles out warm hugs and soaks up snot and sorrow with his thick skin and always says he’s sorry.

And an angel follows in his shadow, leading his reaped souls up to Heaven with a kind smile and a quiet plea. “Do not be afraid.”

Suddenly, Death doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

[graceboundsoul-blog]

Source

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Cas is human now and it’s his first winter. So Dean’s more than a little upset when they are getting ready to go out and Cas stands by the door in a t-shirt.

“Oh, hell, no.” Dean grabs Cas by the arm and drags him back to his room. He digs through his closet, throwing flannels and boots and thick wool socks all in Cas’s direction. Then he helps Cas put them all on. A sweatshirt over his t-shirt, then flannel over that, then a coat. Two layers of socks under the wool ones. Gloves then mittens.

“These are the mittens I made for you, Dean,” Cas says, smiling down at the kitten faces stitched into the fingers.

“You can borrow them,” Dean says, making it sound nonchalant. But really, he wants those mittens back. They are warm and comfortable and one of the kittens has big blue eyes. The matching hat goes over Cas’s head, covering his ears, but giving him a pair of stitched kitten ones. “This, too.”

Dean helps Cas into the snowboots then sits back to appreciate his handiwork.

Cas can’t lower his arms very well, but he’ll be warm, damn it.

Cas smiles like he knows a secret.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“For what? Making sure you don’t freeze to death?”

“Yes. For everything, these past few weeks.”

Dean scoffs, even though, yeah, he has been extra protective since Cas decided to fall for real. But Cas isn’t a superhero anymore. He’s fragile, and has to learn a lot of stuff. He almost wore a t-shirt out in the winter cold, for crying out loud. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Of course,” Cas says, and holds out a kitten mitten covered hand.

Dean’s not sure he could say no to that even if he wanted to.

Sam stares when they get back to the front door, but Dean doesn’t let go. Though when Sam says, “Cat got your tongue?” Dean trips a little.

But then, of course, Cas replies in all seriousness. “Dean and I only kiss in private, Sam.”

[graceboundsoul-blog]

(For manateeparty who is having a (surprisingly similar) bad day.)

Dean pulled the apartment door shut behind him, automatically checking that it was locked.  Positioning his backpack securely on both shoulders, he hurried down two flights of steps then crossed the walkway to the bike rack.  He’d hit the snooze on his alarm one too many times this morning, but if he pedaled fast enough, he’d get to his first class on time.  

Today was his long day, with classes spread out all over the (thankfully flat) campus and, even with his bike, he’d be lucky to make it everywhere on time. He unlocked his bike, stashing the lock in his backpack, before wheeling it away from the rack.

After just a few inches, the bike lurched to a stop.

Dean swore and pushed it forward again, checking to see if his pedal was tangled up in the bike next to his. With closer inspection, the problem became clear: the bike next to his was secured not to the rack, but directly to Dean’s bike.

He yanked at it, but there was no way that state of the art lock was coming off. And now, there was also no way he was going to be on time.  Muttering, he re-attached his lock then kicked the tire of the offending bike before spinning around to sprint to class.

***

The day had gone from bad to worse, collapsing like a row of shitty dominos.  Flustered by being late for his first class, he’d probably tanked the quiz and then he’d had to leave it early to get to the next one (nope, still late).   He’d been planning to bike home for lunch, but without the bike, he was stuck eating on campus, scrounging together coins from the bottom of his backpack for the vending machines. Oh, and if the blister on his right heel was any indication, apparently his new shoes rubbed.

With the apartment building in sight, he began to relax a little.  This day couldn’t end quickly enough and he consoled himself with the thought of his comfy couch and the beer in his fridge.  From the sidewalk he could see something fluttering on his bike.  A piece of paper, taped to the seat.  No doubt an apology.  

Instead scrawled in big black letters, the note simply read: NOT COOL Apt. 22

And, oh look. His bike was still being held hostage.

Ripping off the note, Dean stomped up one flight of stairs, following the hall to the left until he came to the correct door.  He banged on it, not letting up even when he heard footsteps approaching it from the other side.  

The door flew open and a man Dean’s age stood there.  He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, looking somehow a hundred times more put together than Dean in his jeans and t-shirt.  Well, other than his mess of dark hair, which looked like it was waging a valiant battle to leave his head all together.

The man looked startled, and his blue eyes widened, even as his mouth fell open, but he quickly recovered from the surprise when Dean held up the note.

“What the fuck, dude?”

The man blinked and folded his arms in front of his chest. “You locked your bike to mine and now you’re mad?”

Dean managed to sputter an outraged combination of “That’s not what happened” and “I did not” that came out as “I didn’t what happened.”

The man squinted as he tried to make sense of that and Dean gave up and simply pulled him out the door by the (rather firm) arm.

Thundering back down the stairs, Dean led him to the bikes, pointing exaggeratedly to each aspect of the problem in turn. “My bike. Your bike. Your lock.”

“That’s not my lock.”

Dean sighed and steered him to the front of the rack. “Well, here you see my lock.  It’s the one that goes directly from MY BIKE TO THE RACK.”

Just then another man approached them.  He was shorter, with wavy sandy hair and a hell of a smirk.

“Oh, hey, Cas,” he said with feigned casualness.

Cas nodded at him without looking away from the conjoined bikes. “Gabriel.”

Gabriel held out his hand. “I’m Gabe, Cas is my roommate and you are?”

“Dean,” said Dean, watching as Cas tugged unsuccessfully on the bike lock.

“Look, Cas,” Gabe said cheerfully. “The nice man with the bike is named Dean.”

Cas kept his focus on the bikes, but if Dean wasn’t mistaken, he flushed a little bit.  It was a good look on him.

“So, apparently I forgot to mention that I borrowed your bike, Cas.”  Gabe’s attempt at regret was sorely lacking in sincerity. “And since I somehow broke your lock while ‘borrowing’ it, (Honestly, Dean thought, the only thing missing were the air quotes.) I got you a new one. “

Gabe beamed, obviously pleased with himself.  

Cas finally met Dean’s eye, looking so mortified that Dean had to bite back a smile.

“I would like to apologize for any inconvenience.  Apparently, my roommate is not acquainted with proper bike lock usage.”

Before Dean could wave it off as an honest misunderstanding, Gabe spoke up.  “I wouldn’t say that. “

Cas raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Gabe fished the key out of his pocket and tossed it into the air.  Reflexively, Dean snagged it.

“I’d say it worked just right.  Because now you’ve met the guy you’ve been pathetically staring at from afar.”  Gabe walked away, whistling.  

Dean looked at Cas with raised eyebrows, waiting for the denial.

“I wouldn’t say pathetically…” Cas began carefully.

Dean laughed and handed him the key.  

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Cas hides around the corner, waiting for Dean to come down the hallway. It’s almost Halloween, and Cas has been reassured through television and decades of watching humans from a distance, that people like to be frightened on Halloween.

He hears Dean, bites his lip, tries to be as quiet as possible. Footsteps draw closer. Almost…. there! Now!

Cas hops out from his spot into the hallway. But he misjudged the distance.

Instead of appearing a good foot or so from Dean, he is within inches, centimeters. His lips are a few short breaths from Dean and Cas can’t stop looking at them.

Dean doesn’t jump in surprise, though his brows lift for a moment.

Cas almost admits his defeat until Dean says, “Fuck. Finally,” takes Cas’s face in his palms, and closes the slim distance between their lips.

An unexpected reaction, but certainly no defeat.

“Boo,” Cas whispers as they part.

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hummed low, some autumn deancas

Dean’s halfway back to Lebanon when he gets a call from Sam checking in.

“Everything go okay?” Sam asks. “Hey, I’m sorry, by the way. You know I would’ve been there to help, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, the flu, excuses, excuses. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Trust me, I’ve done enough of that,” Sam says, and gives a wet, rattling cough through the receiver to punctuate his point. “How’s Cas? He make it out in one piece?”

Dean throws a look at Cas in the shotgun seat, who’s fallen asleep with a hand pancaked between his temple and the glass of the car window. With his head tucked to his chest like that, he’s got these stubbled jowls, and Dean feels his mouth curve up in a small, fond smile, fighting the urge to reach out and pinch one.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice rings tinnily through the line again, twice as concerned. “Uh, Cas is alive, right?”

“What? Oh, yeah, he’s fine.” Dean refocuses on the highway, the way the thinning trees look like an amber blush on the roadside. “Didn’t do half-bad for a pseudo-human.”

Sam gives a short huff of laughter. “Okay, well. Drive safe. Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” Dean says. “Feel better.”

Dean hangs up and looks at Cas again, and he can’t help the unfurl of warmth in his chest, the bubble of heat that works up his throat. 

Keep reading

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Dean notices that Cas is sitting at the table one morning, hair a spiky mess and eyes squinting down at the newspaper that Sam bought on his early-morning run. He goes over to find that Cas’ frown is directed down at the puzzle page, where a large chequered square dominates the spread.

“One down?” he says, teasing. Cas looks up at him, eyes still narrowed against the morning, and raises an eyebrow questioningly. Dean reaches over to tap the crossword. “If one down’s got you stumped, I’m sure I could help out.” He flashes a grin, hoping to raise a cheap smile from Cas before going on with his day. Cas, however, seems to have other plans. He gestures vaguely to the chair beside his own, and picks up a pen.

“One down,” he grumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “Five letters. The clue is, ‘difficult’.”

Dean stares at Cas for a second. He had plans to go and work on Baby with his coffee and his music, and then take a shower before cooking lunch, and if he stops now there probably won’t be time…

Cas chews on the tip of the pen, and tilts his head to one side thoughtfully. It does something strange to Dean’s heartbeat, and he sits down.

They work through the crossword together, slowly, having to fill in the easy answers first and go back for the harder ones once they have more letters to work from. Dean forgets he wanted to be anywhere but here after the first three clues. Cas’ pyjama t-shirt is thin, and hangs off one shoulder.

It becomes a regular activity, every morning, Dean and Cas sitting at the table and doing the crossword over coffee. Most days they finish it, some days they don’t. Cas only keeps the ones they don’t manage to complete, saying that maybe the answer will come to them.

It’s so very Cas, Dean thinks, to assume that one day they’ll have all the answers.

And if, over time, Dean’s chair wanders closer to Cas’, what of it? If sometimes they pore over the crossword with Dean’s hand wrapped around the back of Cas’ seat, so what? And if - if one day they’re searching together for a word they can’t seem to find, and they look into each other’s eyes as though searching for it there… if their gazes should brush and hold, if their breaths should catch, if they should lean in and kiss and taste coffee and sweetness… what would it matter?

After all, the answer to ‘one down’ is hard, but the answer to ‘two down’ is all too easy.

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Anonymous asked: Blind!Cas where they are in high school and he wants to know what his friend Dean looks like, so Dean lets him touch his face and the fflluufff

Author’s note: It got extremely fluffy, so I apologize for that. But damn, I loved writing this. 

“I wish you could see it, Cas… It’s such a beautiful day, I don’t think the sky has ever been this blue.”

Dean spoke the words to his best friend, who was sitting right beside him on the small wooden dock, both their legs dangling off of it, their bare toes skimming the cool water. The afternoon sun made the lake sparkle in a way that was oddly magical, and Dean couldn’t imagine a better start of their summer break.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” Castiel replied dryly, although there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in his voice. “You could describe it for me… I like when you do that.”

And Dean did, as he often did, giving Cas all the details that he wasn’t able to see for himself. He told Cas about the sun, about the different shades of blue and green in the water, about the grass and wildflowers swaying in the breeze, and about the elderly couple in the distance walking their dog. Cas listened intently, a gentle smile on his face. His eyes, possibly even bluer than the sky that Dean had gushed over just now, were unfocused, as always.

They’d been friends for two years now, ever since Castiel’s family had moved to town. The two of them had taken an instant liking to each other, and Dean was amazed by how much of an impact this one person was having on his life.

After a small sexuality crisis, Dean was no longer too proud to admit to himself that he was a walking cliché, seeing as he had developed a major crush on the boy next door. Sometimes, Dean was almost relieved that Cas wouldn’t be able to catch him blushing, which was something Dean frequently did whenever Castiel was around.

Keep reading

[graceboundsoul-blog]

For the prompt: “dean has a nightly ritual of checking all the doors and sigils of the bunker. sam thinks it’s necessary, the bunker has been safe for decades. but dean is unswayed and checks, ritually, every night without fail. but the bunker is big, and after a while the lack of sleep catches up with him and he passes out halfway through. he half wakes up to realize he’s being carried back to bed. he sees a tench coat but falls asleep before he says anything, but he remembers come morning”

From lovefromdean

The bunker is safe. The bunker is hidden. No monsters or demons or uninvited angels are going to get into the bunker.

But… what if they do?

Dean can’t stop the thought from bouncing around his head at all hours of the night. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get it to go away. Things are just starting to be okay. Sam is recovering, Cas is here, human. They’re almost like a family. And Dean is 100% sure that something is going to come and fuck that up.

So, yeah, he’s a little paranoid about safety. So sue him.

He taps the lock of the front door, making sure it’s in place. He even tugs on the handle a little just to be double sure, then he checks the sigils around the frame, and the devil’s trap under the welcome mat. Once he’s positive all the lines are solid, nothing’s wearing off, nothing’s wrong, he moves on. He checks every door. He checks every window. Hell, he even checks the air ducts. He does this every night, renewing any sigils that need renewed, fixing anything that needs fixing. It takes him a good while, the bunker isn’t a small place, but it’s worth it for the rush of calm he gets at the end. Knowing that they’re safe, him and Sam and Cas, it helps him sleep easier. Well, it would if he had much time to sleep. His rounds take up a good chunk of the night as it is, and it’s beginning to wear on him, but he’ll never admit it.

Sam thinks he’s crazy. It’s an opinion he’s voiced quite often, and loudly, but he’s long since given up telling Dean to go to bed. Cas doesn’t say he crazy, but he does watch Dean with this worried little frown on his face. He stays up a lot too though, Dean sometimes sees him in the library reading when he’s making his rounds. He thinks Cas might have nightmares, but they haven’t talked about it. Probably won’t.

So Dean walks, and he can feel himself tiring out, but he keeps going. He has to check everything, he has to keep them safe. He yawns, and covers his mouth with his hand even though there’s no one there to see. His eyelids grow heavy, so heavy. And there’s a chair, right there in the hallway, and what harm would it do to sit down, just for a minute?

So he does, he sits down, just to give his feet a little rest. And his eyes are sliding shut, but only for a second, then he’ll get back up. He just has to rest for a second.

There’s an odd feeling in Dean’s legs, and his head. Something like a disconnect. Like maybe he’s floating. He struggles to open his eyes, but they feel like they must be glued shut. Finally, he opens one just a crack. Through the sliver of his open eye he can see the hallway, retreating oddly, like he’s moving. But he’s not, is he? He struggles to open his eye further, but can’t quite seem to manage it. The last thing he sees, before his eye slides shut again, is a glimpse of the edge of what might be a shirt. A sweater, maybe. It’s an ugly blue and white pattern, like the one Cas wears all the time.

He slides back into unconsciousness.

Dean wakes, feeling a little off for some reason. He can’t shake the feeling even as he slips out of bed, goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It’s when he unzips his pants to take a piss that he realizes: he still has his jeans on.

Come to think of it, this is the shirt he was wearing yesterday. And, when he thinks about it even more, he realizes that he doesn’t remember going to bed last night.

He remembers walking, checking the sigils, but not going to bed.

He frowns at himself in the mirror, finishes brushing, and then trudges out of his room. He heads for the kitchen, still thinking about why he doesn’t remember going to bed.

He walks into the kitchen to the smell of bacon and coffee, the sound of something sizzling softly on the stove. There’s Cas, standing at the stove in just his boxers and his giant blue and white sweater, hair rumpled, somehow looking very sleepy and incredibly content at the same time.

Dean huffs a laugh, and then he remembers.

He remembers that weird floating feeling. The blue and white of that sweater. There’s a vague memory of someone tucking him in, someone with a gruff voice and gentle hands. 

“Are you alright, Dean?”

Dean blinks, realizing that Cas is looking at him, head tilted to the side, squinting.

“Uh, yeah.” Says Dean. He clears his throat. 

Cas just hums and turns back to the stove, unaware of the sudden storm in Dean’s gut at the thought of Cas carrying him, Cas tucking him in. Cas taking care of him. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But it feels like a big deal. He doesn’t mention it.

When Cas finishes breakfast, he automatically plates some for Dean and slides it across the table top to him before making himself one and then leaving the rest for Sam. Dean watches Cas’ hands, their dexterity, their grace. He feels like this is important. But it’s only breakfast. He doesn’t mention it.

At the end of the day, Dean still hasn’t mentioned it, and it’s weighing on his shoulders like something physical. He needs to do something. So, before he starts his rounds for the night, he stops at the library, where Cas is sitting at a little desk, head bent over an aged tome.

“Hey, Cas.” He says.

Cas looks up, smiles a tired little smile. “Hello, Dean.” He says, same as a thousand times before. But this time, it sends a small flutter through Dean’s veins.

“Do you, uh.” Dean looks away, takes a deep breath, looks back. This isn’t a big deal, he reminds himself. “Do you wanna walk with me?”

Cas blinks, then his smile gets a little bigger. He closes his book. “I would love to.” He says.

He gets up, and they do the rounds together. And if they walk a little too close together, Dean doesnt mind. And if Cas ends up joining Dean on his rounds every night, no one says anything about it. And if Sam sees them walking one night with their hands linked together, swinging gently in between them, well that’s just fine.

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Yesterday was Tuesday, right? But today is Tuesday too!

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//I will be reading these later! Tonight! Later tonight!

thank god i had enough adopted winchester family feelings to finish this goddamn thing

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like raindrops from the desert sky for you i've been waiting

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“What did you just say?”

Dean looked at Cas in shock. There was no way his best friend had just said-

“I don’t understand hickeys.”

They were sprawled out in Dean’s backyard under the shade of an enormous oak tree, just as they had spent most of the summer so far, and Dean could momentarily blame the heat on the fact that he clearly misunderstood. “Dude, you’re seventeen. How do you not know what a hickey is?”

“I know what it is, Dean, I just don’t understand the purpose.”

Dean shrugged.

“To mark someone as yours, I guess?” he settled on. “I mean, the entire time the person has that thing on their neck, people know they’re taken. And they don’t exactly feel bad when someone is giving you one either.”

“Oh,” Cas nodded, then added, “Can you show me?”

Dean knew it was a terrible idea. He’d had a crush on Cas since middle school, and this was going to do nothing to stop that. In fact, sucking a sensitive bruise onto Cas’s tanned and sweat-salt flavored skin was certainly only going to make it worse.

“Okay.”

Dean leaned in closer, chuckling when Cas watched him. He lifted his hand and gently pushed Cas’s head to the side, giving himself room.

“You got to move your head, nerd,” he laughed, and Cas hastily complied.

Cas’s neck stretched out before him, ligaments and soft skin bare and unblemished. Dean swallowed, licking his lips, and his eyes traced the lines, settling on the space below Cas’s jaw where he could see the steady thump of his pulse. He moved forward and licked the skin there, tasting the salty tang and something he recognized as the way Cas made his pillow smell on nights he slept over. Cas gave a small shiver, and Dean moved forward to seal his mouth around the pulse point and suck softly.

Cas let out a tiny whoosh of air, and Dean felt Cas bare his neck even more as he sucked. Cas’s skin was soft and warm from the heat of the day, and Dean sucked until Cas gave a small whimpering sound. He added a light scrape of teeth, which caused Cas to clench his toes, and pulled back to check his handiwork.

There it was, a small oval shaped bruise blossoming on Cas’s skin. Dean stared at the pink and red mark and fought down a sense of possession. Cas was his best friend, but that was all. The thought left him with a sour taste in his mouth.

Cas grabbed his phone and turned on the camera to see the mark himself. A small grin passed his lips and he brushed his fingertips across the redness.

“There,” Dean said, aiming for nonchalant. “Now you understand.”

“Does this mean I’m yours until this fades?” Cas asked, putting the phone down to look at Dean, who suddenly found the temperature in the shade to have risen several degrees.

“Do you want it to?” Dean asked, and Cas nodded shyly. “Well, yeah. Yes. You, uh, you’re mine until that goes away.”

Cas reached his hand across the grass and lay it over top of Dean’s, then looked up at him with hopeful eyes.

“And after?”

“Still mine, Cas. And…and I’ll be yours.”

Cas beamed and Dean blushed.

“You understand what that means?” Cas moved closer and nudged Dean’s head to the side, speaking against the skin beneath his ear. “You’re going to need a hickey too.”

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september 18th, 2008

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18 September 2014 - Happy Destiel Day! 

↳Dean and I do share a more profound bond.